


Can You Hear Me Now?

by Kacka



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-15
Updated: 2016-07-15
Packaged: 2018-07-24 02:55:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7490505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kacka/pseuds/Kacka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes Clarke way too long to realize that the podcaster she likes and the next-door neighbor (whose every move she can hear through paper-thin walls) are the same person. In her defense, she's not quite as oblivious about her feelings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can You Hear Me Now?

It all begins for Clarke when Lincoln texts her a link.

That, in and of itself, is nothing out of the ordinary. Lincoln doesn't post on social media for much except professional self-promotion: photos of his work, invitations to his art shows, PSAs when he sets up his caricature stand in the park on weekends for extra cash.

Despite his all-business approach, he is an avid consumer of all the best things about the internet. Cats being derpy, uplifting and/or astounding videos, heartwarming anecdotes, fun factoids, anything to do with the My Little Pony fandom, into which he so stealthily dragged Clarke she didn't even know it was happening.

He's not the type to share such content to the entirety of his Facebook friends list, but prefers to personalize the experience. For Clarke, that usually means a few text messages per week. So when he links her to a podcast his girlfriend's brother just started, titled, "Little Known History," her reaction falls somewhere between ambivalence and mild interest. She'll try it on her morning commute, and if she doesn't enjoy it she can just switch back to the audiobook she's been listening to. No harm, no foul.

But of course she loves it, because Lincoln shared it with her and after surviving Professor Wallace's advisory together, he knows what she's likely to enjoy.

“Hey, there,” the first episode begins, followed quickly by a muttered curse. “I feel like such an idiot, talking to this thing. You definitely already know this, because you clicked to download this episode, but you’re listening to ‘Little Known History.’ I’m your host, and for the purposes of the podcast, I’m gonna go by ‘Professor B,’ because my name is pretty unique and I don’t want anyone from the internet looking me up. No offense. There are just a lot of sketchy people out there. Also, it’s what my first period class calls me and as far as I’m concerned, anyone listening to this thing counts as one of my students.”

Clarke catches sight of her reflection when the man opposite her gets up for his stop and is surprised to see traces of a smile on her face. She shuts it down quick.

“Alright,” the podcaster says, clearing his throat and sounding as if he’s settling in. “Let’s get started.”

The Professor's voice is rich and low, often good-humored as if he's letting his listeners in on a private joke, but crescendoing when he gets particularly worked up about his subject matter. He tells historical anecdotes in the same rhythm as he might share a particularly juicy piece of gossip, like it's the most interesting thing in the world and can you believe it went down that way? And, of course, each episode is littered with swear words and Hamilton references, both of which Clarke appreciates greatly.

And so it becomes a part of her routine. Something she can listen to on the train and freak strangers out when his dry commentary makes her snort or snicker aloud. Something that becomes so consistent in her life, someone whose opinions she hears so often, that Professor B almost feels like a friend. But it especially becomes something she can play through her earbuds when she needs to drown out the guy in the apartment next door.

"Why don't you just say something?" Wells asks. The off-key singing next door has been going on for almost an hour at this point. Clarke can never make out the exact words, and if he were a more talented vocalist she'd probably be able to discern the tune. But he is committed, she has to give him that. He even goes for all the high notes.

"He's not actually being that loud," she shrugs. "The walls are just super thin. I can't fault him for living his life at a normal volume."

"That's surprisingly fair-minded and non-confrontational of you."

"I've come a long way since the dorms," she agrees, and he grins, probably remembering-- as she is-- the noise complaints she'd get from arguing with her suitemates. "I'm sure he can hear my TV binging, and he never says anything. I've had to knock on the wall once or twice to shush him when his sex noises are keeping me up, but--" she smirks. "So has he."

Wells rolls his eyes as the singing grows quieter.

"Do you think he can hear us talking?" Clarke cocks her head.

"I don't think so. It sounds like he's just moving further into his apartment." She checks the time on her phone. "He's probably cooking dinner. You can smell it from the hall." And it always smells _heavenly_.

"I can't tell if you're creepy about your neighbor or if your apartment is poorly structured."

Clarke grins.

"Why can't it be both?"

Really, it's kind of nice, having this awareness of her neighbor. She wasn't sure how she felt about living without a roommate, but it almost feels less lonely, the reminders that another human being is just on the other side of the wall.

She wouldn't recognize him on the street unless he was humming (atrociously but enthusiastically), but the way he'll turn his music down when he hears her come in the door after a long day at work, or the way she'll hear him laugh when she hollers a curse because she banged her knee on the coffee table-- _again_ \-- makes her feel like they have a rapport.

Still, she's not always in a charitable enough mood to put up with his horrendous singing, or the laugh track to his sitcoms, or his one-sided phone conversations that remind her of Charlie Brown's teacher, so she'll cue up the latest episode of the podcast and stick her phone in the running armband her mother gave her last Christmas. She's never used it for its intended purpose, but she does use it and she thinks that's what counts.

And then one night she's completely worn out from back-to-back shifts at Urgent Care and irritable from her aching feet and rude patients, so when she bursts through the door, she slams it behind her with more force than necessary and promptly collapses face-down on the couch, content to not move until she absolutely has to.

It's another twenty minutes until she finishes the episode of the podcast that's still playing through her earbuds, and when the closing music fades out, she's able to register a knocking on her door.

"Of course," she grumbles, heaving herself up and trudging the few steps across the room.

She perks up when she opens the door to find a _very_ attractive man standing before her, with hair like he just rolled out of bed and arms like his bed probably doubles as a weight bench and a smattering of freckles that create a surprisingly wholesome effect when combined with the earnest expression on his face. Clarke can't explain why he's there, except maybe the universe thought she deserved a treat for all her hard work. Like maybe she's finally cashing in the good karma points she's racked up doctor-ing.

"Uh. Hi."

"Hi," he says, offering her a small smile that does not do good things at all for her thinking capacity. "I'm, uh-- I live next door? 105."

Clarke still has no idea why he's standing in her doorway, but now she's kicking herself for never asking him to keep it down. They could have met way sooner.

"The singer," she says with a nod, smiling faintly when he reddens. "Nice to meet you."

"You too." He clears his throat. "This is going to sound weird, but-- I wanted to bring you these." He thrusts a plate covered in tinfoil toward her and she's caught so off guard that she automatically reaches to accept it.

"What is it?"

"A piece of pie." He shrugs like he's uncomfortable to have been caught in a kind gesture. It's weirdly endearing. "I have a little sister, so I know what it means when someone slams a door like that."

Clarke looks down at the plate in her hands.

"And you immediately whipped me up a pie?"

"No, but as superpowers go, instant pies wouldn't be the worst. I had some left over from my friend's birthday the other night. I've got ice cream in my freezer to go with it, if you want."

Clarke considers. She doesn't really know him, but eye candy and human contact with someone who doesn't piss her off is doing wonders for her exhaustion.

"I could go for some ice cream," she says, and he laughs.

"Come on, then."

She grabs her keys and follows him next door, too tired to really take in the stacks of books that litter every surface and the framed photos on his walls. She hopes she'll get another chance to snoop later, because if she had more energy she'd be acting on her curiosity.

"Vanilla, chocolate, or strawberry?"

"What kind of pie is it?" She asks, helping herself to a stool at his counter.

"Cherry."

"Can I do a vanilla/chocolate combo?"

"Only because you're cute," he teases, rooting around for an ice cream scoop. "And because you look like you've had a long day."

"I feel like those two things contradict each other," she says lightly, brushing past the cute comment. Again, she'll revisit it when she has more brainpower. "Do you have a name, or should I just call you 105?"

"Better 105 than 'the singer.' You and I both know I'm not exactly the next American Idol."

"I don't know. I think passion alone would carry you through to Hollywood." He laughs and ducks his head.

"I'm Bellamy."

"Clarke."

"That fits you better than Doc 103."

Clarke flushes and looks down at her scrubs. She'd forgotten she was still wearing them. They're not the most flattering look, but he still called her cute so she’s not as concerned as she could be.

"Yeah I think that would be pretty confusing to explain to my patients."

He uncovers the plate and heats the slice in the microwave so that it's gently steaming when he drops the scoop of ice cream on top.

"Bon appetit."

She takes a huge bite, smiling in bliss, then wincing when the already-melting ice cream starts dripping down her face. He laughs and passes her a paper towel.

"This is the best pie I've ever had."

"Good, because the future of our friendship was at stake." She doesn't reply, her mouth full of food, but she's pleased that he wants their friendship to have a future. "You want to talk about your long day?"

"I'd rather forget about my long day."

"I get that. Offer stands, though."

"Thanks." She squints at him. "Is it weird that I feel like I know you? Because you feel really familiar."

He smiles again, boyish and bright.

"Not that weird. I mean, we're not total strangers. I know you're working your way through Downton Abbey." His smile turns sharp. "And that you can rap Lafayette better than I can."

“How can you even tell what I’m singing?” She asks, inexplicably defensive and entirely derailed from the mystery nagging at her. It’s one thing to embarrass herself wearing gross scrubs and slamming a door enough like a teenager throwing a temper tantrum that he’d offer her pie. It’s another thing for him to have heard her trying to _rap_.

“Your shower has great acoustics,” he says, like it’s a normal thing to say. “Besides, I’ve tried to get it right so many times I’d recognize it anywhere.”

“Alright,” Clarke says, whipping out her phone and cuing up the soundtrack. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

By the time she falls into bed, stomach full of pie and aching from laughter, she’s already looking forward to the next time she’ll see Bellamy Blake.

That time turns out to be the next evening when she arrives home and he’s got Non-Stop blasting from his speakers. She snags the pack of Oreos out of her cabinet and carries them over, knocking on his door until he turns the music down and she hears footsteps approaching.

“Hey,” he says, eyes widening behind his glasses. _Glasses_. As if Clarke wasn’t in deep enough.

“I don’t have any baked goods just lying around, but don’t say I’m not a provider,” she says, offering the cookies. He laughs and steps aside to let her in.

It becomes a ritual for them, bringing each other food and hanging out in one apartment or another while he grades papers or works on his Master’s program coursework, and she gets into arguments on Reddit or answers questions as a representative of the ‘science side’ of Tumblr. She finds that in addition to being somehow both hot _and_ cute, he’s also smart, well-read, quick with a comeback, and easy to rile up.

And when she even insinuates that he’s any of those things, or any of the other good things she thinks he is, he gets gruff to cover embarrassment and changes the subject, so slipping compliments into casual conversation with him becomes one of her favorite things.

If they met because she was acting like a petulant teenager, now she feels like a teenager with a crush: falling fast and landing solidly on her ass.

Lincoln is the first to notice, the first to call her on it.

“Who's that?” He asks when he catches Clarke smiling at her phone.

She’d texted Bellamy to tell him she’d be home later than usual and that he shouldn’t count on splitting Mongolian food as has become their Tuesday night custom. He’d replied with a pouting selfie, cartons littering his counter in the background.

She thinks about playing dumb for a minute, she really does, but the expression on Lincoln’s face is fond and kind. He’s not a shark like Raven, sensing blood in the water, and he’s not going to be smug and insufferable about it like Wells, and-- She’s excited about it. About Bellamy, about the possibility of someone. She wants to talk about him.

“My neighbor,” she says, pocketing the phone. “We’ve kind of been… hanging out lately.”

“You’ve been holding out on me,” he accuses.

“It’s new _._ But I like him. He’s kind of a huge nerd and he’s a terrible singer and he’s _ripped_ and nothing’s happening yet but--” She shrugs. “It’s fun.”

“Good,” Lincoln says, shrugging when Clarke squints at him questioningly. “You need a little more fun in your life.”

“I’m fun!”

“You were fun in college. You have fun friends. You’re fun-adjacent.”

“Jerk,” she mutters.

“Stick in the mud,” he replies with half a grin.

“Where is this coming from?”

“I want you to meet my girlfriend.”

“And you think insulting me is the way to make that happen?”

“I’m trying to appeal to your stubborn side so when I invite you out to drinks with us after work on Friday you’ll feel like you need to prove how fun you are and actually show up.” The corners of Clarke’s mouth twitch. He’s got her there.

“Fine,” she groans, like she hasn’t been dying to meet and vet his Very Serious girlfriend. “I’ll be there. But not because your manipulation worked.”

He beams, full and victorious.

“Of course not.”

She’d been halfway through an episode of ‘Little Known History’ when Lincoln had shown up, so she tries to finish it on the ride back to her apartment. The Professor is just wrapping up when his beautiful voice gets interrupted by the obnoxiously tinny sounds of the preset ringtone. She looks down to see Bellamy’s face appear on her screen and she’s already smiling when she swipes to answer.

“Wow, someone’s really lonely without me.”

“Excuse me for trying to make sure you didn’t get Taken or alien abducted or run over by a rabid horde of Pokémon Go players,” he deadpans. “Actually I was gonna see if you could grab us a six-pack on the way home. I’m not picky about what kind. I figure med students party a lot to keep from combusting, so I trust your taste in booze.”

Clarke freezes up so much when he starts speaking that she nearly misses her stop.

It’s his voice.

Hearing it through her earbuds, in direct comparison with what she’d been listening to before, it hits her like lightning. Why he feels so familiar, why she hasn’t been able to shake the feeling that she knows him. Bellamy is Professor B.

The open doors beep and jolt her back to reality. She mutters a curse and squeezes through just before they close on her.

“Everything okay?” He asks, concern seeping into his tone. “The Pokémasters coming for you?”

“Yeah. No. Fine,” she stammers. “Six-pack. Got it. Be home soon.”

“Okay,” he says, dubious. “See you when you get here.”

She’s obsessing and puzzling it out the whole time she’s at the supermarket, the whole time she’s walking home. How could she have missed it? How could she not have known? They’re both intensely dorky, with the same sense of humor. She likes them both a stupid amount. It’s so obvious, now that she can see it.

When his door opens, she shoves the beer at his chest so she can cross her arms over her chest and frown at him.

“I thought you were a TA as part of your Master’s program.” He blinks at her once, twice, and then she clucks her tongue and pushes past him into the apartment.

“I teach high school,” he says absently, swinging the door closed.

“So let me get this straight. In addition to teaching full-time, doing what I now guess is an online graduate program, and recording a bi-weekly podcast, you’ve also been making time to hang out with me every day?”

“I don’t--” He blushes and frowns, setting the beer down so he can run a hand through his hair. “You’re making it sound a lot more impressive than it is. It’s not online classes, I’m getting my degree in education. It’s student-teaching. I’m only in the classroom one day a week for now, though I’ll be full-time next semester.” He sighs. “And I don’t know how you found out about the podcast--”

“Your sister’s boyfriend is one of my best friends.”

“And he outed me?”

“No.” She blushes. “I recognized your voice. It honestly took me a lot longer than it should have. It’s still damn impressive, though.” His frown unravels fractionally. “I feel honored that I made it on the schedule.”

The frown loosens and then falls apart, like she’d finally pulled at the right thread.

“Of course you made it on the schedule. You’re--” He hesitates. She steps forward, crossing gently into his space, and hooks a finger in his belt loop as she smiles up at him. Encouraging. Waiting.

“I’m what?” She prompts, when he looks too gobsmacked to remember he was in the middle of a sentence.

“You’re my reward,” he admits, sheepish. “If I’m productive enough and I get all my work done during the day, I let myself leave the library at a reasonable time so I can come back and hang out with you.”

“Yeah?” She’s beaming like an idiot, but she can’t bring herself to care.

“Yeah.” He wets his lips and her eyes fall reflexively to his mouth. He lets a shaky laugh out and lets one of his hands come up to rest on her hip, the other reaching to tuck a stray hair behind her ear. “Anytime you want to share what you’re thinking...”

In answer, she crooks her finger and tugs him just off balance enough that he sways toward her, his hand firming its grip on the back of her head as he pulls her to meet him. It's playful and light and a little dirty, his talented tongue exploring hers, her nose bumping up against the bridge of his glasses. Teasing nips and roaming hands and underneath it all, a current of affection.

“Do you have grading to do?” She asks breathlessly, tearing her lips away just long enough to ask the question.

“Who cares?” He murmurs, biting softly at her shoulder in an effort to hide his grin.

“I was thinking we could talk incentives.”

His breath stutters as she presses fully against him.

“I’m listening.”

 

She brings Bellamy along when she goes for drinks on Friday, hoping that Lincoln won’t give her a hard time about her new boyfriend if she’s able to reciprocate. In the end it doesn’t matter much because Bellamy’s sister is just as smug as her boyfriend, teasing Bellamy about how he _would_ win a girl over with his epic nerdiness.

“And pie,” Clarke pipes up from where she’s nestled into Bellamy’s side. “The pie did most of the winning.”

“Thanks.”

The sarcasm in his voice is undermined by the way he brushes his lips against her temple.

“Let’s be real, here,” says Lincoln. “I’m the one who will be taking credit for this relationship.”

“Half credit,” Clarke decides, pointing at him with her glass. She might be a little tipsier than she thought, with the way her hand drifts to one side. “Congratulations, you found me the best thing on the internet.”

Lincoln clinks his glass against hers.

“I’ll drink to that.”

Lincoln never stops linking Clarke to things-- recipes he thinks she would like, cool art, in-depth critical analyses of her favorite television shows-- but he nothing he sends ever beats Bellamy out for the top spot. And Clarke doesn’t think anything ever will.


End file.
